For Her
by LadyLuminol
Summary: Greg would remind himself that he was doing this for her. Because he would do anything for her...


**For Her**

**Author**—LadyLuminol )

**Disclaimer**—All characters are the property of their respective owners. I just get to play with them.

**Warning**—Drug and alcohol use

**Author Notes**—A change from my usual GSR fics. Tell me how you like it; reviews make me write what you want to read!

It was probably the seediest of all seedy motels this side of Las Vegas. Which, in a city of aging strippers and carnal sin, was definitely saying something.

Greg was sure that it had seen more than its fair share of one-night-stands, teenagers looking for a private place away from the prying eyes of parents, and Strip whores plying their trade with anyone with enough money to support their crack habit. It was definitely not the first time he had been here, although never for a tryst of his own.

It was always for her.

He felt like every night, he was going to pick up one of his best friends from one dumpy motel or another. He would've laid odds on her not even knowing the name of most of the men she ended up with. Once upon a time, when this was a rare occurrence instead of an almost nightly one, he thought to ask her if she knew just who the hell had abandoned her here. He had it all plotted out; his cover would be righteous anger over whoever left a beautiful woman drunk and alone in a cheap room that stank of cheap booze and cheaper sex. He admitted to himself that the righteous anger wasn't completely a façade.

He had talked himself out of that one, thank God.

There were never any names, never any reasons given. Just a friend helping a friend in need. Oh, the reasons were all there, of course, there for any idiot with a third of a brain to find. The empty bottles of alcohol, the faint lines of powder from their own drug addictions… It was disgusting and fascinating all in one moment. How could _anyone_, let alone a stunning, self-assured woman like her, do this to themselves?

Greg pulled up to the room number she had given him, a backpack full of her spare clothes on his back. Gently, he rapped on the door, praying it did not fall in on him. His luck was in today; it didn't, _and_ she was lucid enough to open the door for him so he didn't have to ask for a key. He stepped carefully in, mindful not to turn on the lights and aggravate the combined hangover and cocaine-trip end he knew was either raging or almost there.

The room was a testament to tacky and inexpensive design, not unlike the outside of the motel. The faded Southwestern wallpaper was peeling away, and there were spots on the ceiling that not even the harshest cleaners could remove. The bed seemed to be the only useable feature of the room; even the mirror was cracked down the middle. Strewn across the room were various discarded items of clothing: a shirt was draped across the lamp and the stereotypical bra-on-doorknob was present.

"Hey, Cath," he said, keeping his voice gentle and soothing. "It's Greg. You called me, remember? C'mon, let's get you out of here." _What the hell, Cath? What makes you do this?_

"Unhh…" was all she could say, the alcohol- and drug-induced trance she was in making her about as articulate as a kindergartner.

"Alright, let's get you dressed. Up and at 'em, girl!" _Keep it light, Greggo. This is Cath; she's liable to rip your balls off if you don't._ Painstakingly, Greg attempted to let Catherine dress herself, until he saw that zippers were just too much for her mind to comprehend. Gently removing her hand from the pull-tab, he turned her around until he could see where the zipper was supposed to go. "OK, you're dressed. Let's just grab your stuff and ditch this place." Feeling his way around, he swiped Catherine's jacket and her old clothes before hustling her out the door towards his little Geo.

Gently Greg shoved Catherine into the passenger seat and buckled her in. He shut the door carefully, and made his way around to the other side, climbing in. He turned the key in the ignition, swearing softly when the battered little car wouldn't start.

"Relax, genius," he told himself. "It's not like she's in any rush to go anywhere. Just calm down and relax." He took a deep breath and slowly turned the key again, praying the damn thing would start. He must have had someone on his side, or his luck must have been extremely good because it did with nary a complaint. _Thank you, God…_

The drive to Catherine's house was a calm one: no cops pulled them over, no accidents slowed them down, no irate drivers vented their fury by honking their horn until driving wasn't really driving, but drag racing. Greg turned down Catherine's street, passing the myriad of darkened houses. Every time he passed, he would wonder if the people who lived there were as normal as they pretended to be. A valid question, considering his job. And all the more valid, considering the favor he was performing.

Then he would quickly remind himself that he was doing this for her, not for his own philosophical turn of mind, and to keep his eyes on the goddamn road.

He pulled into the driveway, keeping his headlights low so he would not wake the neighbors, or more importantly Lindsay, who he knew from his last venture here three days age, had a science test today. Greg had become her favorite person to hang around with lately, mostly because he helped with her homework and didn't mind her eating popcorn while they played PS2 together. Actually, Greg's signature had been known to sign her permission forms and failed tests. This had been allowed after a brief, hushed explanation to her teacher by Greg himself. The failed-test signature usually didn't make an appearance very often anymore, because Greg told her that he would make her do the dishes for three days after every failed test. After two tests that had failed to pass muster, Lindsay figured out that Greg was around enough to enforce his punishment. This was all a side note, but to Greg, his special relationship with Lindsay made him come to Catherine's aid all the more readily, just to know that Lizzie, as he affectionately called her, wouldn't have to deal with her mother alone.

"Cath, do you have your keys?" he asked as they got to the side door, hoping that she hadn't lost them again. He was getting slightly annoyed with having to take her to get a new house key once a week because they had been lost in the heat of the inebriated moment.

Apparently still feeling pre-verbal, her only reply was, "Unhh…" Not very useful, but at least it was speech.

"Oh, hurrah. I have to search you again, don't I?" Greg sometimes felt that he missed his true calling as a Customs official at these moments, so adept he was at figuring out the random and often odd places Catherine's keys would end up. Fishing around in her jacket pocket, he finally felt the rough cool metal that could only be one thing. "Aha, got 'em! Problem solved!"

Flipping to the right one, he unlocked the door and disarmed the security system. The password was a joke, and he hadn't yet bothered to tell Catherine that he had figured it out on his second 'visit' there. Slowly he guided her up the stairs and into her bedroom, dumping her in the queen-sized bed with her clothes still on and shoes half off. He flipped the comforter over her and switched out the lights, knowing that tonight was going to be one of _those_ nights.

Downstairs, he grabbed a set of _his_ spare clothes from the closet, and changed into the tattered PJ bottoms and old UC Berkley tee that was his habitual nightwear. They had been hastily stuffed in the bottom of the tote from his last overnighter. He quickly made a bed of the pullout couch in the living room, borrowing blankets from the linen closet in the second floor hallway and pillows from a cupboard in the laundry room.

As he drifted off, he started planning what he was going to say to Lindsay in the morning, knowing that whatever he said was merely a front that they both pretended to accept. Lindsay knew just as well as Greg did that her mother was upstairs sleeping off a narcotic-induced haze, and Greg knew just as well as Lindsay that they both knew it was a sham. A well choreographed and carefully played one, but a sham nonetheless. And Greg would make Lindsay breakfast, and pack her a lunch, and they would pretend that it was a normal thing to have a guy that your mom worked with in your kitchen in his PJs getting you ready for school. Lindsay would tell her friends that the guy who dropped her off at school was her cousin that lived with them, and the world would be in its normal place.

And as he drove off, Greg would remind himself that he was doing this for her. Because he would do anything for her. Even babysit her mother.


End file.
